


Dancing with our hands tied

by Taeyn



Series: Lotura [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Affection, Canon Compliant, Canon Prequel, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Times, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Galra Secret Santa 2017, Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Tender Sex, making up after a fight, soft lotura, the royal courts of Altea and Daibazaal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 13:51:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13125057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taeyn/pseuds/Taeyn
Summary: “Huh,” Lotor huffs, but she can tell he feels mildly comforted, enough to curl into her lap and complain about his teeth hurting from all the sugar again. He doesn’t let up after the opening credits, so Allura playfully sticks her finger into his mouth to shush him, which she immediately regrets after he accidentally bites her.“Ow,” Allura says sheepishly, and Lotor tips his head back to stare accusingly up at her, then sucks her finger for a decent two doboshes after, half-amused and half-grumpy about it.-10,000 years before the rise of Voltron, Princess Allura of Altea falls in love.





	Dancing with our hands tied

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Longpig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Longpig/gifts).



> for @lotors-saltwife~ I was so happy and excited to receive you as my giftee! All of your prompts were things that I adore too, so I hope this comes together in a way that you like (and not too many cheesy feels! :3) It was a pleasure getting to explore this pairing and I’ve really fallen in love with them now~ <3 Wishing you an amazing holiday and happy secret santa!!
> 
> fic notes:
> 
> 1\. this fic contains mild reference/moments related to the darker practices of the druids, however nothing that isn’t already present in canon | 2. all mature content contained within happens when the characters are adults, as is made clear in the fic <3

******.i.**

Princess Allura holds herself still and steady, a graceful smile on her face and hands folded neatly on her desk. It’s hot, even for an Altean summer, and the gown she’s chosen is achingly heavy. It has nine vertical panels on the front, a high, delicately twisted neckline and sleeves that wrap over her hands. Around her middle is a sash, then two loops that bend over each shoulder and a trellis of interconnected knots weaving down her back. Her skirt comprises of eight separate layers, then a pair of fitted trousers underneath. If you walk just right, the layers catch in the sun and become transparent at different intervals, alluding to the wearer gliding through hues of green and silver, purple and deep blue. It looks like water and earth at once, and is the traditional court attire of the Va’kar quadrant, gifted to her by the Va’kar royal family upon their arrival to Altea that same morning.

Allura loves the gown, even as sweat is dampening her hairline, even as she has to sit at the very edge of her chair during lessons, because the sash and the bendy loops don’t quite fit behind. She loves it because it represents diplomacy, the strength of the friendship between her family and the Va’kar royal family, and a summer of exciting balls and interplanetary visits to come. This season, Allura will attend the welcome celebrations in earnest. She almost feels nostalgic now that Coran won’t have to discover her behind the curtains, or the musician’s stands, or in the kitchen while more hors d'oeuvres are being brought out. If it was early enough Coran would pretend not to see her- badly, which always made Allura giggle- and if it was late he’d promise to keep a special eye out, tell her about all the new allegiances and trade agreements in the morning.

An elegant script pops up on Allura’s data tablet, and she glances at her desk, surprised. The message is in Altean- handwritten, rather than lettered- with swooping accents and indulgent flourishes, flowy and pointed and careless at once.

_Are you daydreaming about trade agreements? You look like you’re daydreaming about trade agreements._

Allura rests her elbow on the table, leans her face into her hand to squash a smile. Chat doesn’t normally work on the tablets during lessons, and, since Coran’s only filling-in for the time being, he either doesn’t mind, has forgotten to lock the feature, or one of their classmates has overwritten the coding again. Regaining her composure, Allura sits a little straighter, slips Prince Lotor a glance when Coran dives into a enthusiastic rendition of why you should always carry a pillowcase whilst hiking the deserts of Kythra. Allura’s attention doesn’t usually wander, but somewhere between the stifling outfit and the pre-event excitement it must have, because she could’ve sworn the lesson was started with poetry.

_Trade agreements_ and _allegiances,_ Allura writes back, and it takes a bit longer because she uses Galran script, the translation doesn’t line up word for word. _Only_ _50% accuracy._

Allura glances at him again, this time catching a wry smile as he reads it. Lotor’s taller this summer, more droll and sarcastic, he crosses his arms and leans in doorways, lets his hair cover half his face. And in spite of all that, he still loves her, the way Allura knows only a best friend can. They still train until they collapse, refuse to ever go easy on each other, even when the other’s exhausted. They still sneak into the mineral pools (the ones with the hologram sea creatures, for visiting dignitaries only), they still sprawl around the AI chamber for late-night chats with the palace. And they still talk, sometimes until dawn, about things they’ll never remember, until Lotor falls asleep with his mouth open and Allura spread-eagled on her stomach, and whoever wakes up last usually has an unflattering likeness waiting as the new background of their tablet.

She can still make him smile with her terribly un-sarcastic jokes.

Somehow, that feels like it means something.

_I brought Albert,_ writes Lotor, this time in Universal Basic. Basic script is quicker, albeit messier, but Coran keeps directing his methods for the proper selection, collection and storage of lava seed pods in Lotor’s direction. Lotor looks intrigued, then, when Coran isn’t looking, bends over his tablet again.

_He’s grown a bit._

Allura’s eyebrows twitch in surprise, and Lotor manoeuvres his tablet into both hands, eyes narrowed and nodding at the front of the classroom in a picture of concentration. Then, he tilts the tablet a fraction upright, carefully slips their pet from the cuff of his sleeve in the shadow behind. Albert flickers for a second (synthetic energy pets always do that, but Albert’s been particularly prone since Lotor sent him through the wash) then glows a soft shade of mint, slowly takes the form of a baby weblum. Allura gasps in muffled delight- how Lotor coded a sequence for that one, she’ll never know. The tips of Lotor’s ears blush a slightly brighter shade of lilac as he tries not to look too pleased with himself, then ushers Albert back into his sleeve. They’re probably too old to be playing with energy pets now, but there’s something fun in the fact they both don’t care, Albert’s shared in too many adventures to simply abandon in some bedside drawer.

“And that!” Coran declares, “is the best way to catch a duflax, if you’re out on a scouting expedition and you’re a tad short on light, maps, or you’ve just misplaced your boots!”

Goodness, her gown really is hot.

_Feel like an early mark?_ asks Lotor, and for a moment Allura worries. If he’s noticed her growing discomfort there’s a chance someone else might too, and nothing fuels an interplanetary misunderstanding like lack of appreciation for a royal gift. But then Lotor peers at her, expression flat and half-lidded and ever so slightly scathing, and Allura affectionately realises he’s only bored and sleepy.

_If wishing would make it so,_ Allura scribes back. The rest of the class looks interested and alert, by all accounts, but they’ve all been raised in court on one planet or another, looking interested and alert is the default state for any would-be ruler.

Lotor has to stifle a yawn into his fist as he types with the other hand, and Allura lets her gracious demeanour lapse for a second to roll her eyes at him. _Some_ would-be rulers. Lotor blinks back at her, slightly watery, then his mouth pulls to a crooked smile, he shrugs as if to say _hey, I still get stuff done_.

Allura waits, and then, to her astonishment, she can actually hear something- no, _many_ things- it sounds like a rising symphony of flutes and chimes. Coran falls silent in surprise.

“Oh, well, look at that, looks like King Alfor’s running the old mid-afternoon evacuation drill,” Coran says buoyantly, and Allura’s peers rise in unison from their desks. “Or, as we used to call it, the mid-afternoon coffee drill!”

Allura tries to catch Lotor’s eye, but he’s staring smugly ahead of her, tucks his tablet below his arm. Allura starts grinning too, until the pleasant chiming stops abruptly, replaced by what sounds like an ominous thunder of deep horns. Coran pauses mid stride, then tweaks a hand over his moustache, pulls a brightly-coloured safety helmet from the storage panel at the wall.

“Change of plan, team,” Coran announces, “that’ll be the fire alarm- looks like it isn’t a drill after all. Burnt nutri-paste in the kitchens, I’d say!”

While the rest of the class start filing toward the exit, Lotor’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, his mouth flinches at the corners as he recovers his tablet.

“Come on, Prince Lotor, you can finish that outside,” Coran hurries them, the horns blasting ever louder as Allura takes the longest route possible toward the classroom door. Lotor’s typing into the tablet with such speed and ferocity that Coran appears mildly impressed, Lotor’s never looked so committed to transcribing notes from a lecture.

“Allura-” Lotor blurts, and he stares at her with such dismay that Allura’s chest does a weird squeezy thing, his ears have flicked backward and down, she so seldom sees him visibly upset.

And then there’s a low click, a shuddering noise from the ceiling, a courteous announcement from the palace AI and a sudden torrent of freezing water drenching Allura’s hair and gown. She yelps from the shock of it, and Lotor stumbles forward in an attempt to shelter her, though the water is spinning from everywhere and he’s just as wet.

“That’s interesting!” Coran calls out, stands on tiptoe to get a better look at the blasting pressure-jets. “The palace sensors should really only direct water to where the fire actually _is_. It’s almost like there’s been some sort of override!”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry-” Lotor mutters through gritted teeth, so only Allura can hear, he has one eye squinted where the spray hit right on target, hair plastered to his face. He keeps moving to block Allura from the worst of it, but he might as well be a parasol in a shower of rocks, Allura’s already thoroughly soaked.

“Oh _stars_ , the dress,” says Allura, looks down to find the material dark and waterlogged, the bows soggy and heavy and drowned.

Lotor can only just bear to assess the damage when another jet of water hits him in the mouth, and Allura, who hadn’t intended him to feel bad, suddenly can’t suppress a fit of giggles on seeing it.

“They say you’re not a true diplomat until you’ve had at least three dresscode mishaps,” she grins, and Lotor quirks an eyebrow, bunches his cheeks as if to aim the mouthful at her, then looks too guilty and spits it over his shoulder instead.

The jets make a last high-pitched whine, then dribble into nothing, the alarm fading as suddenly as it started.

“Well,” says Coran, perplexed. “That was something.”

Allura tries to scrape Lotor’s hair back behind his ears, pinches her thumb and index finger where his nose has started dripping. He scowls but lets her, Allura’s known him long enough to know the scowl isn’t for her.

“Yeah,” Allura mutters, and Lotor raises his hands to fix her hair too, far more gently than she can manage. “Yeah.”

 

-

 

The welcome celebrations don’t go as planned.

Despite all her preparations, Allura’s nerves make her forget the greeting protocols for two of Altea’s distant neighbours, and they weren’t even the tough ones. She later finds herself out of her depth in discussions on history and politics, and when it comes to the dancing, she’s too stiff and uptight, she can feel herself marching through the steps like a battle sequence. It’s all no matter, of course, Altea’s allies aren’t nearly so hard on anyone as Allura is on herself. Nevertheless, it still stings when Prince Bokar of Senak enquires after her newly gifted gown, subtly implying Allura must think the Va’kar traditions below her, to decline to wear the attire. At first Allura thinks this is intended as a slight, but promptly feels even worse when she realises Bokar is in earnest, it seems he looks down upon most traditions that do not accord with his own. Worse still, since Prince Lotor is unexpectedly absent, there is no one else of the age or rank to be a dance partner for Allura, so she ends up suck with Bokar half the night.

All in all, it’s an abysmal evening, and Allura’s more than happy to finally collapse back on the bed in her chamber, swap her uncomfortable dress shoes for socks and generally feel a little bit sorry for herself. As much as she’d like to visit Lotor’s chamber and vent the whole thing, she ends up deciding to spare him. Allura’s never been one for commiseration, and she knows she’ll only be terrible company, it’ll take a couple more vargas before she can laugh about it.

Taking up her hairbrush instead, Allura’s no sooner unwound her bun when she hears a clipped set of footsteps gliding down the passageway, Lotor’s familiar swift pace and long stride, he always walks as if he’s leading some critical mission.

“ _Uuhgh,_ ” he hisses, as soon as he’s outside her door. “My father found out about this afternoon. I’m not allowed one foot inside the celebration hall.”

Allura’s glum mood evaporates as she can’t help a smile- Lotor clearly has no qualms about sharing the misery.

“I missed the cake and everything,” Lotor mourns, while Allura hunts around for her dressing gown and slippers. Lotor need not see the old set of pajamas she wears when she’s trying to cheer herself up, and they’re probably not necessary now anyway.

“So I ate three caramelised custard-apples from my parent’s welcome basket instead,” Lotor continues, sighs ruefully. “And then my teeth kind of stuck together. The more I think about it, the more I suspect they were for aesthetic purposes only. Really, it’s been quite a night.”

“Oh yikes,” Allura giggles, she can only find one slipper so she may as well give up and open the door. “Don’t worry, you’ll feel tons better when you hear about mine.”

“I won’t,” Lotor says curtly. “If was good I’ll be jealous, if it was bad I’ll want to punch anyone who made it so.”

Allura unlocks the door panel, and Lotor leans back against the wall, gives a lopsided smile to let her know he’s kidding. But the funny thing is, Lotor _is_ a bit like that, at least with the latter part. He’s always enjoyed her more joyful stories though, even when he doesn’t have much to add. Sometimes, days later, he’ll ask some shy question about Alfor or the rest of her family, just when Allura’s sure she must have bored him.

“Hmm, maybe the holonet instead then?” Allura says with a wry grin. Lotor’s eyes narrow in surprise, he clearly wasn’t expecting her evening to have been bad.

“What? Who? Tell me,” he says bluntly, then, as if looking for something softer, pulls an odd face and comes up with, “-please?”

Allura starts laughing.

“I just mean, you didn’t miss much,” she says, then activates her image screen, brings up the latest episodes of _Breaking up is Hard to Doom_. “Except my bad dancing. And awkward small-talk. I’m beginning to think the sit-down discussions would have been less painful.”

“Huh,” Lotor huffs, but she can tell he feels mildly comforted, enough to curl into her lap and complain about his teeth hurting from all the sugar again. He doesn’t let up after the opening credits, so Allura playfully sticks her finger into his mouth to shush him, which she immediately regrets after he accidentally bites her.

“Ow,” Allura says sheepishly, and Lotor tips his head back to stare accusingly up at her, then sucks her finger for a decent two doboshes after, half-amused and half-grumpy about it. He only pauses his suckling to issue a volley of predictions that the Count and Countess of Doom are secretly engaged, and when the episode proves him right, grins and tucks her hand against his chest instead, as if to keep Allura from further dangerous and spontaneous gestures.

It feels like a strange time to notice Lotor’s chest has gotten a lot broader, especially as she’s already straddled him in sparring practice several times that week. But it’s been a strange sort of day, and Lotor hardly ever looks so relaxed, and even after all the holonet episodes are over, Allura feels oddly happy when Lotor doesn’t lift his head from her lap, simply turns over and sleepily plays with her hand.

“Your father gifted me some literature when your envoy arrived,” Allura says softly. “Want me to read?”

“Mm-hmm,” Lotor mumbles, and then, because he can’t resist- “if it’s from my father, it’ll put us to sleep for sure.”

“To be fair, I’m not sure he chose it,” Allura grins, and she shows Lotor one of the books. Traditional Galran poetry- far too whimsical for Emperor Zarkon’s tastes. Lotor looks impressed, though then again, it’s not every quintant you see an actual bound text.

Allura reads the prose out loud, and though it’s far more difficult than her study readers, she doesn’t hear any corrections on her Galran pronunciation from Lotor. Allura continues, then eventually laughs and calls him out on it after a particularly harrowing sentence.

“I’m just being selfish,” Lotor says guiltily. “I like listening to you. And you’re far better than you credit yourself for anyhow.”

“Really?” Allura says wonderingly, not because they don’t say encouraging things to each other, but because such compliments are usually framed in the form of ironic insults, and sound completely out of place when said directly instead.

“No?” Lotor says after a moment, and he sounds slightly bewildered too. Allura keeps reading and Lotor closes his eyes again, though she can almost swear he keeps trying to peek when he thinks she’s not looking. There’s something about having pale yellow eyes that doesn’t leave all that much room for subtle.

Eventually, Allura decides she’s only imagining things she’d _like_ to see, she can never quite catch Lotor’s gaze, and the text really does require her full concentration. At the end of the chapter there’s a fantastically long metaphor, and Allura delves into the tangle of words with the sort of confidence that only comes with knowing one’s defeat is imminent, and you may as well go out with a bang.

Lotor flops onto his back and peers up at her with a wide grin, waits patiently for Allura to finish, though now it doesn’t help that she’s grinning too.

There’s a small silence.

“Tongue down,” Lotor says, eyes watering at the corners since he refuses to laugh. “It reshapes the meaning of half those words if you don’t keep your tongue down.”

“It does not!” Allura squeals indignantly, though they both know it does, and she can’t even pretend to keep a straight face.

“Tongue down,” Lotor repeats, amused, and then, just when Allura thinks he’s not looking, reaches up a hand and pokes a finger into her mouth, presses neatly down on her tongue. “Like that.”

“Right, that’s it,” Allura teases, but Lotor’s well ready as she wrestles him from the mattress, he’s quicker and better at wriggling out of all her best holds too. Their fighting eventually comes to a halt when Coran knocks on Allura’s door, regretfully relays the message that Prince Lotor’s to return to his quarters. Apparently Lotor wasn’t just grounded from the welcome celebrations, but was supposed to be confined to his room entirely.

“I think I’ll miss you,” Allura whispers, and though she means it sincerely, Lotor looks so caught off-guard that she can’t resist pulling him into a cross-body lock before he can regroup.

“Shoot,” Lotor grins, when he realises he’s stuck. And then, “I think I’ll miss you too.”

 

 

**.ii.**

It’s almost spring before Allura gets to see him again, and it shouldn’t feel as long as it does. Allura accompanies diplomats of the Altean court on various discovery expeditions now, and has a particular love for those related to technology, science, or alchemy. Lotor, she knows, travels too, though much of his strategic training is still based on Daibazaal. Allura’s father is often stationed on Daibazaal too, Zarkon’s palace serving as something of a base for Voltron and the paladins. And, while Allura dearly wishes she were allowed to visit Lotor’s homeworld more often, she also understands things are changing with the lions. Where the paladins used to embark on regular endeavours to assist planets in need, they are now used sparingly, their missions discussed less openly than before. Allura can surmise well enough that assisting one planet often breeds dissention in another, and if Voltron has enemies, her father may wish to keep his family clear of the one place any enemies would know Voltron to be.

At least, Allura _thinks_ that’s the reason.

And so, it comes as a happy surprise when she realises she might be entirely mistaken, Allura hugs her father tight and doesn’t let go when he tells her they’ll be landing on Daibazaal in less than a night-cycle. Instead of sleeping, Allura spends vargas polishing the gifts she’ll be presenting the Emperor and Empress (these, she’s had stored on the ship from well before- leaving one's gifts on one's home planet is a rookie error). She curls, straightens and plaits various sections of her hair, arranges her latest gowns only to decide on formal court robes. All the while, she goes over the things she has to tell Lotor- all the planets she’s visited and languages she’s learned. And, when they finally touch down, a full guard of honour waiting as part of the royal greeting party…

Lotor isn’t there.

“Oh,” says Allura, deflated, when her father reminds her he’s most likely in an early morning training drill. Daibazaal is not a planet of forests and lakes, all terrain-based activities are conducted before the intensity of the midday suns, then from late afternoon into the evening. Lotor’s status a Prince does nothing to excuse him from the strictly enforced training routines, honour and rank demanding he be pushed far harder as the rest.

Concealing her disappointment (which she soon feels silly about- in her excitement, the Galran cadet system had entirely escaped her), Allura makes a strong cup of tea in her quarters, then carries it outside to the palace gardens. Due to the barren nature of the planet, what plants do grow are some of the most interesting she has ever seen- tall, spiny things, colours of red and bronze, leaves of black and viperous purple. There’s a fountain too, pumped directly from an underground spring and streaked with what minerals run in Daibazaal’s veins. It’s all very beautiful, somehow haunting and ethereal at once. Allura decides she could probably write a morbidly lovely poem about it, she’s sleepy enough that the words bubble up without having to reach for them.

“Allura!” comes a voice, deeper than any she first recognises. When Allura looks over her tea and sees Lotor striding down the garden path, all flushed cheeks and robes flowing out behind, she suddenly doesn’t feel very sleepy at all.

“You changed your hair,” she hears herself say, which is completely the opposite of all the funny and witty greetings she had planned in exchange for his absence at the welcome party. Lotor wraps his arms around her in a soft embrace, gently rests his cheek on her brow.

_Blast and quiznak,_ Allura thinks to herself. He’s taller, _again_.

“Yes,” he murmurs, and eventually, almost reluctantly, lets go. “Do you like it?”

Allura smiles. Instead of obscuring half his features, Lotor has his silvery hair pulled taut behind his ears, their points sharper and more defined. Since he seems genuinely unsure, she reaches a hand to touch it, sweeps back the strand that keeps falling over his eyes.

“Yes,” she whispers. “You look so very Altean.”

He blinks, then looks oddly touched, he dips his head when the words don’t come.

“How was training?” Allura ventures, because Lotor doesn’t usually have such shadows below his eyes. His skin felt warm, too, when they had hugged, and Lotor normally runs much cooler than she.

“It was-” starts Lotor, pauses and clears his throat, apologetic. He takes another breath, then quickly turns away, muffles an alarming fit of coughing into his shoulder.

“-pretty wild,” Lotor tries to joke, and Allura instinctively reaches toward his upper back, rubs her palm in a small, soothing circle. Lotor coughs some more, and Allura gives a sympathetic groan- her courtly duties don’t magically abate when she falls ill either.

“Sorry-” Lotor says hoarsely, and Allura manages to drag him to one of the carved garden benches, presses her cup of tea into his hands when he can breathe.

“But don’t you want this?” Lotor mutters, and Allura reassures him she’d rather he have it. When Lotor still looks unconvinced, she teases that she’d rather tell her stories without him spluttering all the way through, which gleans a small, dry smile in return. And so he drinks the tea in slow sips, leans into Allura whenever she presses a cold hand to his brow, shivers and trembles every so often when he has a bout of feeling freezing.

“Do you want to cuddle in bed instead?” Allura asks after a while, because she’s pretty sure Lotor could be half-dying and still say he’d rather the gardens, if he thought Allura was enjoying it.

Lotor sniffles, his features softening at the suggestion. He draws a breath to answer, flinches as he tries to hold-in a sneeze, then finally relents to laughing at himself as Allura gives him a hopeless frown, as if to say, are you _sure?_

“A little longer,” he offers, then sighs. In truth, they both know it’ll be near impossible to smuggle Allura into Lotor’s room, the palace security of Daibazaal might as well be a galaxy from that of Altea. And cuddle? In _bed_? Allura doesn’t know where _that_ suggestion blurted from, only that Lotor didn’t seem to find it ridiculous. He sits a bit closer to her after that, his head drooping exhaustedly onto her shoulder. When Allura strokes her hand through his hair for the second time that day, his brow is damp with sweat.

“Apologies for the poor company,” Lotor murmurs, when his coughing won’t stop and they’ve run out of tea. “It wasn’t half this unbearable earlier.”

He picks Allura a Lyran rose in regret- pale and delicate, and yet the only flower that flourishes in the desert climate.

“No, no, you’re okay,” says Allura, and she means it, she’d sit with him all day if it helped. She walks him back through the palace, letting Lotor show her all the less-travelled routes, Allura commits the passages to memory like markers in a maze. The guards are patrolling close by when they arrive at Lotor’s quarters, so Allura gently taps Lotor’s earlobe in place of a cheek-kiss goodbye. He’s weary, but he still manages a crooked smile.

“Get some rest, and I’ll be back soon,” she promises. “I’ll bring you soup. And caramelised custard apples. All your favourites.”

“Alright,” says Lotor, less shadowed as he can’t help smile again. And then, quieter, just as Allura turns to leave, “thank you.”

 

-

 

Back in her guest chamber, Allura can’t relax as well as she might, she keeps looking at her tablet in case there’s a message from Lotor. She figures she’ll wait a half-varga, and then, luck willing, use the codes Lotor’s given her to unlock his door, just in case he’s sleeping. She paces, stares blankly out the vast windows, then plays with Albert on her bed- Lotor’s programmed him to appear as a six-limbed Xznly Squiwl this time. She finds a jug of water for her flower, then decides she likes it better through her buttonhole anyway.

_Do you think the coast is clear?_ Allura scribes into her tablet.

Lotor doesn’t write back.

 

-

 

Allura opens her eyes, her pulse quickening with a sudden jolt as she sees her tablet screen.

_Three vargas._ She’s slept for _three_ vargas.

Her eyes fill with angry tears as she sees there’s an unread message too, Lotor probably expected her ages ago, he would _never_ fall asleep if she needed him. Allura opens the message, furiously grabbing her travel-pack, which has herbs and body oils and other things that might help make him feel better. And then Allura freezes.

Several of her vials break as they slip from her fingers.

There, instead of a handwritten message on the screen, is what looks like a jagged line. It starts at the top of the tablet, then slips steadily downwards, breaking in the middle and then blurring at the end, it trails into the corner of the tablet and disappears into nothing.

A dark well of dread rises in Allura’s throat, hollow and numb. She can taste fear in her mouth and it tastes like blood, her lungs seize in panic. And then Allura’s sprinting, falling, shaking, her footsteps echo wildly and the halls of the palace are deserted.

_No,_ is all that echoes through her mind. _No no no no_ -

Where is everyone? Why is it so quiet?

Allura keeps thinking to shout, for the guards or for the healers, but something stops her, some fierce, desperate knowledge that nothing’s right, nobody’s here, her missteps aren’t a game and yelling out feels like a mistake.

She makes it to Lotor’s chamber, calm grips her like a vice as she enters his code. Maybe his tablet just slipped off the bed while he was sleeping, Lotor does tend to kick and fidget when he’s not well. In fact, Allura can already imagine him, reading some book and looking thoroughly tetchy about the lack of attention, being all languid and bored and insisting he doesn’t care when she explains, then looking even more disgruntled when he realises he’s swiftly talked himself out of a hug and some pampering, and _then_ looking teary and guilty when Allura offers both anyway, and-

The door slides open, Allura gives a blurry smile as she stumbles toward his bed, then a sob as she knows, like she's always known, that he’d be sprawled limply across the floor, the tablet broken where it fell next to his hand and his eyes barely open, breath coming in short, frightened sips.

Allura falls to her knees beside him, she sees the pale, bluish tinge to his skin, his eyes start to water as Allura hisses his name.

“Hold on-” she whispers urgently, her thoughts racing and cold, bearing down on everything she knows, everything she’s ever learnt. Lotor fell ill so quickly- could his fever have been masking something more lethal? Everyone knows the Galran druids practice more than alchemy, and there’s too much here that feels dark and unnatural, far from an accident. She needs her father, but both he and Emperor Zarkon are on a mission with Voltron, that was why they had come to Daibazaal in the first place. Had someone known they’d be away? Few people can wield the kind of magic that hurts, and it would take a powerful druid or sacred Altean to undo it.

There are no druids Allura can trust.

And the only sacred Altean in the palace is her.

Allura grasps both of Lotor’s hands, his fingers are stiff and freezing. She hasn’t been trained but she’s heard stories, if there’s ever a time magic can manifest itself, it’s at a moment of dire need.

Lotor opens his eyes a fraction, pupils slitting toward her, Allura clenches her jaw as she realises he’s no longer afraid. He trusts her, unchecked and unconditionally, a ghost of his strength returns to him as he squeezes one of her hands, then tries to smile.

He forgives her.

He loves her.

Tears are drenching Allura’s face as she grips his hands with everything she has, only to see his smile fade and his eyelids close, his hand goes loose in hers.

“Please!” screams Allura, her voice is broken and guttural, nothing is happening, not even the smallest thing. “Please, please, I’ll do anything, please!”

When Lotor’s breathing weakens she straddles him, clutches both hands into his chest and tries to channel whatever it is that could possibly save him. _All of it,_ she begs, the bruises at his eyes are darkening. _All of it, anything, anything._

A thread of spit leaks from Lotor’s mouth.

“Father!” sobs Allura, her plea nearly silent as it leaves her mouth. “Father! Mother! Help me!”

He’s going to die.

He’s going to die because someone wanted him to, someone more powerful than Allura, and not all her love, her best intentions, or some fantastical magic power is going to come to her aid. Her childhood is over, her fairytales are dead.

_You know, I nearly died on a simple rock-collecting expedition once!_ comes Coran’s voice, a bright, distant whisper as Allura screams for Lotor to come back. _Turns out I had my atmo-filter on the wrong setting the whole time! Luckily your father was carrying essence of Lyra- an antidote for almost every known-_

Allura jerks away in horror.

_He’s not under some spell,_ she thinks fiercely. _How could I have been so foolish!_

Allura rips the sleeve of her robes in one swift motion, seizes the flower Lotor picked for her and squashes it into the material, twists it to a tight bundle.

_He’s been poisoned._

Allura runs the tap in Lotor’s bathroom until the water is scaldingly hot, then rinses the flower bundle for exactly seven tics, Coran’s detailed instructions coming back to her word for word. Reaching for an empty glass, she switches the water to ice cold, then submerges the flower a second time, this time catching the remaining liquid in the glass below. When she straddles Lotor again, Allura isn’t delicate, she wrenches him upright and tips his head back, forces the distillation down his throat.

He shudders, then hiccups and shakes his head, sticks his tongue out as if tasting something vile.

“Don’t make me do it again!” Allura shouts deliriously, he’s waking and she can barely breathe for hope. “Coran says you can extract at least seventy glasses from a single petal!”

Lotor opens his eyes- his sclera are horribly pale- then stares at Allura as if from far away, hiccups again.

Allura feels herself trembling. She’s trying to rub his shoulders and arms, desperately wants to say something, so the first thing he hears doesn’t have to be scary and heartbreaking. But now that he’s listening all she can do is cry, the shock and adrenaline rises up through her lungs and she can hear herself gasping, making these stupid awful noises that aren’t comforting at all.

Lotor tries to take her hand, shakily cups her palm to his cheek. Then, he moves her hand just as swiftly, buckles forward and covers his mouth, which does nothing to prevent him from bringing up most of the flower water over Allura’s lap.

“I’ve got you,” Allura sobs, and she tugs his hair out of the way, makes a low hushing sound as Lotor is promptly ill again. “I’m here, I’m here-”

Allura presses what’s left of her sleeve to wipe his mouth when he’s done, she’s still trembling and teary, but at least this gives her something to do.

Lotor looks down at her ruined dress, sniffles in regret.

“Two diplomatic outfits down,” he says hoarsely, trying to make her smile. “One to go.”

 

-

 

To Allura’s knowledge, no one in the court of Daibazaal hears of the events that unfolded, and Lotor is more than happy to keep it that way. The Emperor and her father know, of course, Allura sent word as soon as Lotor could accompany her back to King Alfor’s wing. Voltron’s return had been swift and the days that followed long, Allura was told nothing and questioned surprisingly little, Lotor was questioned too and was afterward surlier than ever. But no meetings are cancelled, no court business postponed. The druids trace the poison back to an outpost Lotor visited a week before, where rising anti-Galra sentiments have made the political climate tumultuous at best. Had Lotor been a full Galra by genes as well as birth, the toxin would have acted far quicker. Arrests are made, though there’s no word of any prisoners arriving back at Daibazaal. The most visible change is the replacement of the palace guards with robotic sentries, but, as Lotor remarks to her dryly, one can hardly tell the difference either way.

On the night before Allura’s envoy is due to return to Altea, Lotor takes her to the rooftop of Daibazaal palace.

“I’d like to show you something,” he says quietly. “So you have something to better remember me by.”

“I have a lifetime to remember you by,” Allura whispers, unthinkingly reaches for his hand. _And I wouldn’t forget a second._

“Well,” says Lotor, and he grazes his thumb over her knuckle as they walk, swallows before he looks back. “Because I wish to, then.”

There’s an uneven step in his pace as he draws them to a halt, the palace is so vast that the suns have set before they reach the far corner. And then Lotor hesitates, so unlike him with surprises, he’s often unabashedly smug when it comes to always choosing Allura the right thing. Allura waits, watches as his mouth pulls at the corner, his eyebrows hitch a fraction at the centre as he flicks his pupils in the direction he hopes she’ll look. Allura does, and what she sees gleans a soft gasp, Allura holds her breath as she stares.

“In the year of our birth,” Lotor ventures, he’s still trying hard to read her reaction. “There was a comet. This-”

He lowers his jaw as Allura takes in the site below, humming orbs rising from a jagged tear in the earth. They look like fireflies, gently weaving between flickering shadows, flaring and splintering, fading to dusk.

“-was where it hit,” Lotor finishes, then scrapes his teeth over his lower lip, anxious somehow.

It’s beautiful- frighteningly so- and Allura, whose fingers are still twined through Lotor’s, brings their hands to a clasp at her throat, squeezes tight with joy.

“Lotor, it’s beyond words,” Allura manages, beaming and overwhelmed, and Lotor, who had already been gazing downward, dips his head so far into his chest that his hair spills over his shoulders, the tips of his cheeks stain dark as berries.

“No, no, I mean that I love it!” Allura continues, mistaking him, but when Lotor peeks up she realises that he understands. He offers his free hand toward the ledge, asking if she might sit down.

Allura does, at first with her legs tucked to one side, then she changes her mind and lies on her front instead, to better see over the breach. Lotor laughs and does the same, arms folded and chin resting on his hands.

“Why does it glow like that?” Allura murmurs, mesmerised. She can almost imagine a warmth rising from the fissure, but evenings on Daibazaal always come with a gentle layer of mist, something to do with moisture descending from the atmosphere.

“I’ve always wondered,” Lotor hums back, a soft, pleased sort of sound curling somewhere within his chest, ears turned slightly outwards, as they do when he’s truly at ease. “There are theories, or, well, hearsay...”

He exhales, a puff of air brushing Allura’s arm as he turns toward her, rests his cheek on his wrists instead.

“You mean it’s classified research and no one’s supposed to be up here,” Allura grins, and Lotor’s smile twitches uneven, he shuffles onto his back as the last shades of blue and purple leave the sky. Allura does the same, for a moment she’s tempted to lay her head on Lotor’s middle, feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, much deeper than hers. She doesn’t, but moves closer as she shifts onto her back, Lotor offers the crook of his shoulder in case she wants a pillow.

They gaze at the stars for what feels like so long, and Allura, who has spent nearly as much time in spacecraft as she has palaces, can never quite pinpoint what it is that makes a night on ground so breathtaking.

“I am going to miss you,” says Lotor, suddenly sincere, and Allura feels a swell of emotion beneath her ribs. There’s something so unreadable in his expression, eyes tender and solemn, his voice low and grave.

Allura turns into his chest as Lotor wraps his arms over her back, holds her like he’ll never let go. His face presses into her neck, mouth hard and eyes squeezed shut, his fists crushing into her hair.

The light from the rift flickers, the fireflies dancing and dying below.

“So much,” whispers Lotor. “So much.”

 

 

**.iii.**

_A lot can change in a season,_ thinks Allura, she ties the last loop on her gown with military precision. _I can’t judge Prince Bokar for the undiplomatic notions he held in his youth._

“Princess Allura?” comes Coran, a soft tap at her chamber door. Prince Bokar of Senak has allocated an entire wing of his palace to the Altean envoy, an unusual and generous honour, especially considering the number of royal dignitaries in attendance for the ball. Allura gives her reflection a last stern glance, moves the circlet on her brow a fraction lower, then meets Coran in the passageway, apologises for keeping him waiting.

“You look wonderful, Princess,” Coran says gently, when Allura spreads her arms and spins for effect. The dress- another gift from Prince Bokar- is made up of thousands of silver threads, thin as sap and fine as dust, they cascade past Allura’s ankles, trail behind her as she walks. Alura has chosen two gold bracelets to complete the outfit, one on each of her wrists in the traditional Altean style.

Prince Bokar is to meet them beneath the palace’s central archways, but when there’s no sign of him, Coran asks if Allura would prefer he escort her instead.

“Maybe give it a few more tics,” Allura decides, though Coran looks unsure, the host of a celebration should never be the last to arrive.

“You know how things can go wrong at the last dobosh,” Allura says with a light laugh, though she does feel slightly self-conscious when several other guests shoot her subtle but curious stares. Coran frowns.

“Yes. Well,” he hums, rocks back and forth on his heels and crosses his arms. It only takes another envoy of royals to pass before Coran announces he’s going to look for Bokar himself, perhaps there has simply been a miscommunication about the meeting time. Allura can’t help but be touched by his vigilance- while Coran will always be like a second father to her, they’ve also forged a genuine friendship over many balls and expeditions past.

Allura makes her way around the vast arches as Coran hurries away, takes time to admire the intricate carvings depicting Senak’s royal lineage.

_Let them stare,_ Allura thinks, suddenly at peace with herself. _There’s no shame in being patient, and this way, I get to see more of the palace’s history._

She walks a full circle around the first column, trying to understand the tales or folklore behind the stonework. There’s a repeated theme of the Senakian royal family transforming into serpents, which Allura decides she’ll have to ask Prince Bokar about, it’ll make for a lively conversation topic at least. Allura moves toward the far side of archway, so entranced by the strange and violent images that she barely looks up, a tall, darkly-clad figure nearly colliding with her head-on.

“I beg your pa-” Lotor starts, apologetic, then his mouth falls wide open, he looks so stunned that Allura starts laughing for no other reason than she’s overjoyed to see him.

“I can see your fangs,” she teases, because he’s still gaping, and he closes his mouth and grins widely- and rather _purposefully-_ charmingly. He kisses her hand, the occasion being far too formal for a hug, then explains that his invitation was last minute and devoid of the customary guestlist.

Odd, because Allura’s had arrived phoebs before, signed in Bokar’s personal hand.

“May I have the honour?” asks Lotor, when Allura explains her escort is somewhat delayed. Though every part of Allura’s diplomatic training tells her to remain, Lotor, who knows the protocols as well as she, dips to one knee in the Galran military tradition, offers a gloved hand.

Bokar’s late. And, by all intergalactic standards, Lotor outranks him.

Allura places her hand in his, and for a moment she can’t suppress a smile, she wants to wink at him and whisper- _phew,_ _saved_. When Lotor meets her eye she knows he’s thinking it regardless, and for a moment they have to look away so they don’t make each other laugh. And then it’s straight faces, straight posture and graceful strides, Allura slips her arm through Lotor’s as they glide toward the ballroom.

He looks at her and smiles.

Allura walks a little closer, just so their shoulders bump.

And then Prince Bokar comes storming across the hall, chest puffed and eyebrows knotted, pale hair flying out behind. Allura’s a little taken aback by his outward lack of control- Bokar glares at Lotor, and from his stance and manner, she’s convinced he’s readying to deliver a discourteous remark.

“Prince Bokar,” says Lotor, with a cold, almost cutting politeness that sends a prickle down Allura’s spine. “My father, Emperor Zarkon, sends his regards in place of his attendance tonight. I am only too pleased to accept your invitation in his stead.”

Bokar, who couldn’t appear less pleased, also seems unable to tell whether Lotor is being sincere. Deciding to take Lotor’s words at face-value, he eventually offers a mirthless smile.

“Please forgive me, Allura,” Bokar says, his unfriendly manner vanishing as he turns, offers Allura his hand. “For my indefensible absence. I was held up without means of sending word- I cannot begin to tell you how-”

“Oh, no, really it’s fine,” Allura assures him, and truly it is, such silly hitches are certainly not worth anyone getting upset.

“But you must allow me to make it up to you,” Bokar insists, his palm remaining outstretched. “I have arranged two musical scores in your honour, if you might grant me your company.”

Lotor, whose arm is still linked in Allura’s, gives an inadvertent flinch- for a second Allura feels his claws dig into her skin, surprisingly painfully. Lotor pulls away in alarm, looks both stricken and deeply embarrassed, his arms fall limply by his sides as he seems at a loss for what to do with himself.

Before Bokar can figure out what’s happened, Allura has his attention again, she accepts his hand and nods toward the dancefloor. It’s nothing- Lotor must’ve felt unexpectedly distressed or protective- but refusing one’s host is not the Altean way, she’ll have to wait before asking Lotor what’s wrong. Allura tries her best to catch Lotor’s eye as Bokar claps to his musicians, but he hasn’t moved from where he stood, his lips parted and his gaze lowered.

When the symphony starts, Lotor turns and disappears into the crowd. Bokar has forgotten the whole thing entirely, he’s leading Allura with far greater poise than she’s accustomed. This time, she keeps up with ease.

“Is the python wing to your liking?” asks Bokar, and Allura replies in the affirmative, grateful, the Altean envoy has more opulent rooms and twisting balconies than guests to fill them.

“And I’m delighted to see you wearing my gift,” Bokar continues, and he smiles cordially at Allura’s silver gown. Allura could’ve sworn she caught a glimpse of Lotor at the foot of one of the staircases, but they’re moving too quick to tell.

“You’ve been very kind,” Allura offers, treading lightly in the wake of Bokar’s steps. “Altea is so glad for the friendship of planet Senak, now and always.”

The words sound a little formal as they leave her, and she truly doesn’t mean them to be harsh. But Bokar seems to take their meaning, offers a respectful- if not slightly disappointed- nod.

Their second dance is slower, and, perching her hands upon Bokar’s ceremonial armor, it’s then that Allura spots Lotor for sure, glowering at the glass of wine in his hand. He takes a sip, then finishes the glass in one, refusing to glance in her direction. Allura scans the other couples for any familiar faces- perhaps she can ask one of her distant cousins to keep Lotor company. For all his moods and forbidding airs, Allura knows him to be soft at heart when it comes to her friends, he’s received many a tearful request for a pod-ride out of somewhere, never asks prying questions or complains about being woken. But Coran is the only guest she knows, and when Allura sees him laughing warmly with some of Senak’s royal advisors, she can’t bring herself to trouble him. Coran is alway there for her and everyone, he so seldom takes a night off to relax.

The music ebbs to a close.

“This was a pleasure, Princess Allura,” says Bokar, and he bows to her in parting. He hesitates, and then- “I shall always be grateful for your friendship too.”

He gives a gruff nod as Allura offers a genuine smile- she’s glad to have resolved any potential hurt feelings before they eventuated- and Prince Bokar excuses himself to return to his duties as host.

“Have you seen Prince Lotor?” Allura asks Coran later, offhandedly, when she’s completed more than a few laps of the enormous ballroom, exchanged greetings and a wealth of conversation with several respected dignitaries along the way. She’s scoured the balconies too, all fourteen of them, but finds them mostly deserted, the starlit view of the gardens sending an odd pang through her throat.

“I thought he was with you, Princess,” Coran murmurs, his eyebrows tipping in concern. Despite Allura’s attempt at lightheartedness, he can read her all too well, Allura’s heart feels small and squashed when it dawns on her that Lotor’s already departed for the evening. Perhaps a summons from his father? Some urgent business on Daibazaal? Leaving a celebration early can injure even the most steadfast interplanetary allegiances, and it’s so unlike him not to say goodbye.

“Is there anything I can do?” Coran asks softly, then, trying his best to cheer her, flicks his gaze toward the buffet. More specifically, a three-tiered stack of golden pastries.

“I could bring us some more hors d'oeuvres,” Coran offers, gently joking. “We could see how many we can sneak back to the wing.”

Allura, who had been mustering her most heartened brave face, suddenly finds herself laughing. Coran smiles, his eyes creasing at the corners, and in spite of everything, Allura does actually feel a bit better.

“He’s not even _at_ most of the balls,” says Allura, as if hearing her own silly thoughts out loud will make sense of them. When Coran only dips his head, understanding, the realisation only makes her eyes prickle instead.

“We could head to the castleship?” Coran suggests, only half-joking this time. “It wouldn’t be too hard to get a ping on his craft- and the perfect chance to test my new energy signature radar! We could wheel out the old tracking beam and, woodlewopsit’s your uncle, he’ll be back on-planet in no time!”

Allura breathes out a laugh, links her arm through Coran’s as the first guests start to gravitate towards the exits.

“It’ll be alright, Princess,” Coran tries, and Allura nods, more fiercely than she intends. It’s all so stupid but she can’t stop staring, the marble floors and the sweeping columns, the fragments of light twining across the space.

“I was going to ask him to dance,” she whispers.

 

-

 

In the early hours of the morning, Allura departs the palace for a walk. For all its peculiarities, Senak really is a beautiful planet, covered, for the most part, in thick, verdant forests. The air is cool and moist, beading on Allura’s face and hair, and there’s a blue phosphorescent embedded in the leaves of taller treetops, giving the illusion of water suspended above the forest canopy. There’s the thrum of chüpers and the trill of what she can only guess might be yalmor, and by the time Allura has circled back toward the royal quarter, she feels completely soothed and rested.

That is, until Allura sees Lotor’s new stealth fighter in a clearing, lights on and doors disengaged, Lotor sitting atop the hull, completely oblivious to her presence.

_What in the name of-_ thinks Allura, sharply and unequivocally annoyed.

Unstrapping an energy rope from her belt-pack, Allura strides right over to the craft, throws the adhesive end of the rope over Lotor’s windshield and vaults neatly up beside. She lands perfectly balanced, feet spread and arms poised, retracts the energy rope back to a coil in one swift crack.

Lotor blinks.

“If you wish to set fire to your diplomatic bridges, I won’t stop you,” says Allura, her earlier disappointment harshly punctuating each word. “But you at least could have said goodnight.”

Lotor sucks a breath through his teeth, his tentative surprise quickly darkening to a scowl. He looks, Allura realises, vastly worse for the wear, eyes red-rimmed and dusky, furious and quick to bite.

“Would I have built better diplomatic bridges,” Lotor says crisply, “had I engaged our host in a duel to the end? That was another favourite option.”

Allura throws up her hands, the last of her restraint doused by Lotor’s lack of it.

“It certainly would’ve been more entertaining than running around looking for you,” Allura returns, refusing to be derailed. “Or finding you reclining in the forest without a care in the universe. In fact, if you’re still in that duelling mood-”

“-without a care in the universe-” Lotor hisses, his mouth pulling back in a snarl.

“Except perhaps for Prince Bokar,” Allura adds hotly, her emotions getting the better of her as the evening floods back. She glares to where Lotor had been holding her arm. “He seemed to have no trouble getting a reaction from you.”

“That was an accident!” Lotor explodes, his feigned composure snapping as he leaps to his feet. “Of course I wanted to say I was sorry! Do you think I’m not sorry? I’ve never been so sorry in my life!”

“I didn’t want you to be sorry!” Allura shouts, stirred by Lotor’s sudden display of feeling. “I just wanted you to stand by my side!”

Lotor tips his head back toward the sky, he pinches a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. When he looks down, his pupils are narrowed, jaw gritted as he tries- Allura suspects- not to say anything twice as antagonising.

“That certainly didn’t seem to be your concern,” Lotor spits venomously, his voice low and caustic, “when, without a tic’s hesitation, you left me for that-”

Allura strides right up to his chest, daring him to finish. Prince Lotor knows, as well as she, that not every royal in the galaxy is going to be pleasant, or selfless, or easy to get along with. But these are the rulers that’ll one day be crowned, as will Allura, as will Lotor, and there’ll come a time when neither of them can simply choose to walk away.

Peace has to be won. With words, and with compromise, and with tact. Again, and again, and again.

“If this is your attempt to make amends-” Allura starts, when Lotor only stares harshly at her shoulder.

“Do I look or sound like someone who wishes to make amends!?” Lotor bellows, and for all intents and purposes Allura isn’t actually sure- his eyes have gotten very flashy, his breath taut and uneven and his gloves pointed sharp- for the second time that night- from his claws. She hasn’t seen him this worked up even when they _are_ duelling, and strangely, she almost kind of wishes she did bring her sword.

“I need to borrow your stealth fighter,” Allura decides, and she taps her boot- just once- to the hull of the craft, making it clear that she means this one, right here, and right now.

Lotor mutters something in Galran- _oh, perfect-_ but his clipped accent makes clear exactly how he feels about it, and for all his hostility, Allura realises he’s also more than a little hurt.

“I meant with you in it,” Allura ventures, and Lotor stops scanning the treetops, trying to decide where he’ll be hanging out while this all takes place.

“I see,” Lotor says briskly, and he kicks open the hatch. “I thought you’d find my company too insufferable, fraught as it is with undiplomatic notions-”

“-your undiplomatic notions won’t be piloting the craft,” Allura interrupts, catching Lotor by the lapels of his tunic before he makes it to the central chair. She hoists him- none too gently- into the co-pilot’s seat beside, fastens the double crossbelts over his chest rather more tightly than necessary. Lotor growls and slouches unhelpfully down in the chair, then rests the heels of his boots on the console, one ankle over the other.

Allura may or may not decide to deactivate the G-force equaliser.

“Where are we even-” says Lotor, before the ship ignites with a low hum, pinpoint lights blossoming over the navigation. Allura launches them forward, soaring so sharply over the trees that Lotor’s legs flip ungracefully from the dash, his torso pinned to the chair and teeth bared in alarm.

“You’ll see!” Allura calls, the ship roaring as she accelerates, branches parting and leaves fluttering in their wake. Allura firms her grip on the controls, leans her full weight against the handholds and swoops, dipping them toward one of the crystalline lakes and pulling up just in time. They blaze just above the surface, bubbles sprinkling from the depths and the light of Senak’s moons reflected in the black. Allura tries the ship’s underlights, a coiling wreath of coral shimmering back at them, deep and carnivorous, oddly haunting beneath the still. Allura powers-up the thrusters, the craft making a satisfied whirr as they gain altitude, then a series of sonar bleeps as Allura heads straight for the mountain range.

“Is this supposed to be a sightseeing expedition?” Lotor asks briskly, as Allura increases their velocity toward a narrow fissure in the outcrop. “Because I can see that solid rockface just fine from here.”

The cabin dims, a series of coordinates flickering above Allura’s controls. She lines them up, adjusts the ships’ trajectory and readies the counterdrive, speeding neatly through the canyon as the ship turns on its axis. Switching back to navigation, three plasmic circles appear in Allura’s sights, suggesting she may want to blast some of the stalactites out of the way rather than weaving between. Allura declines, taking them lower to get a better look at the formations. Despite Senak’s tepid climate, the mountains are dark and cool enough to freeze what humidity seeps in, the rocks are covered in sparkling ice. The craft pivots, bursting through the opposite side of the range, and Allura feels a familiar weightlessness lift her stomach as she points them toward the brooding stormclouds ahead.

“At this speed, it’ll take us all night,” Lotor drawls, and Allura has to appreciate his commitment to sounding impassive, despite the fact he’s near-flattened against his chair, eyes squinted from the force of it.

“Oh, I agree,” Allura says cheerily, though she’s not above a little recalibration, it’s always handy to know how a ship handles whilst spinning upside-down. “An Altean vessel would be much faster.”

There’s a dull echo from the horizon, a flicker of bright from the clouds. The sky looks like ink, or ash, tendrils reaching for them like spilled blood.

“What is this?” Lotor mutters, and now he can’t help but sound tense, knuckles taut and fingers clenched into the seat. “Volcanic activity?”

“No,” says Allura, easing their pace as they lift into the swelling dark. The fighter’s no longer pushing, but drifting smoothly, a steady thrum of raindrops splattering down the windshield.

“...acid?” asks Lotor.

“It’s water,” Allura says softly, releasing her belts and turning to face him. “Like how we have rock-showers at home. But… less rocks.”

Lotor watches, then unclips his belts too, he stares at the lightning with a shy, almost hesitant fascination. The clouds wash above the hull of the craft, blotting in vague, spindling waves. From the first curls of pink at their crests, Allura realises the sun must be rising.

“May I sit with you?” Lotor murmurs, and Allura moves over so he can. They lay facing toward each other, one ear pressed to the seat and the other pricked toward the storm. Lotor’s loose strand of hair falls into his face, and he puffs a breath toward his brow to shift it, then scrunches his nose and rolls his eyes when it flops right back.

“You could braid it,” Allura tries, gently playing with the lock. Lotor closes his eyes, the sensation tugging a small, comforted smile from his lips. He makes a sound as Allura plaits it herself- something low and affectionate- and Allura strokes the tip of his ear as she tucks the braid behind it. Lotor gives an appeased shiver, then nuzzles his face to her shoulder, his hands loose and uncurled in his lap. Allura pinches the fingertip of one of his gloves, then another, she gradually loosens the fabric and eases his hand free. Lotor slits an eye open but he lets her, doesn’t shapeshift to make his hands look Altean. They’re mostly the same anyway, the same long fingers and pointed knuckles, the same well-shaped, well-manicured nails. The only difference Allura can see, is that his nails are lilac, like his skin, and harder, to extend when he’s agitated. He does so a little now, because he’s comfortable, and Allura finds it nice that he doesn’t mind letting her see.

“Not too frightening?” Lotor whispers, and Allura shakes her head, surprised that he might think so. Lotor takes his other glove off, and Allura traces her own fingernails along the curve of each of his fingers. She lifts his arm- heavy, when he’s not helping her, and gently presses a kiss to the middle of his palm, her way of saying sorry for their fight. His hands are so smooth, save a few callouses from training, his skin softest in the dip just next to his thumb. Lotor warms to her touch, eyebrows tipping in the middle as he makes an emotional-sounding click with his throat. He presses his brow against her shoulder- _I’m sorry too_ \- and Allura leans her cheek against his hair, realises he has a vaguely ashen scent, all bitter fruits and sable salt.

“A bit higher,” Allura whispers, and Lotor rests his mouth against her shoulder instead, the tip of his nose lightly squashed against her skin. She can feel his exhale- gently and fluttery- and he returns a kiss to Allura’s shoulder too, mouth carefully closed.

“I’d like to say I felt protective,” Lotor admits. “But I know that wasn't the whole of it. You don’t need protecting, and-”

Lotor meets her eyes, Allura’s palm following the line of his jaw, thumb skipping over his earlobe, tenderly cupping his cheek.

“-I felt unforgivably jealous,” Lotor manages, his voice rough and yielding, he swallows on a hiss. “And sublimely ashamed of myself, for never having asked.”

His mouth crumples as a tear spills down the side of his nose, and Allura leans her cheek against his, softly stroking his hair. She keeps touching him- his face, his ears, she smooths her thumbs over his eyebrows when they pull taut, kisses the jut of his throat and the wet below his eyes.

“...asked...” murmurs Allura, barely audible under her breath. Because this is too important. She loves him too much to get it wrong.

“-if it was me,” Lotor whispers. “If I was yours.”

And then Allura kisses him, deep and telling and long, she kisses like he’ll be there forever, that each forever might be their last. His tongue- hot and stinging, in spite of his cool skin, grazes at the edge of hers, Allura reaching unbidden, teeth scraped over his lower lip. His breath catches in his throat as she does, something needful and urging, and the sound prickles through Allura’s core, Lotor gasping as she pins him in the seat. His hair is everywhere- in her fists, spilling into his mouth, and Allura rakes it back, winds a handful snugly around her wrist and elicits a sharp shiver in return. Her lips and jaw are wet, trembling with heat of his mouth, his hands clutching fiercely into the back of her dress, splaying at the nape of her neck, and finally- tenderly- caging her cheeks and jaw. Allura feels her body seize as his kisses travel the curve of her throat, his gentle nips and coarse, helpless growls. She pulls him, arching, and they collapse clumsy and giggling to the floor, Lotor heavy and tangled on top of her, his hair a messy curtain and cheeks damp and flushed as plums. Allura dips his brow to hers, closes her eyes as she can’t hold back her smile.

“Ask me,” she whispers. “Ask me now.”

 

 

**.iv.**

There are not many moments to be stolen, alone, for two heirs stationed lightyears apart. But there’s a secret thrill in finding them, Lotor taking haphazard detours on route to his missions, Allura vanishing for spontaneous reconnaissance trips on planets nearby. Allura’s sure she’s being subtle, until her father insists a Galran envoy join them at Altea’s winter palace, Emperor Zarkon heartily agreeing. And then, despite their recent distance, the two rulers suddenly strike up a conversation about trade agreements and recent asteroid showers with such enthusiasm that Allura can’t help wonder if this hadn’t been some hope of theirs all along.

Allura takes it, holds on with both hands.

“Am I heavy?” Lotor will mumble, eyes drifting closed, and he is, and Allura likes nothing more. He’ll yawn, his head settled snugly in the middle of her chest, hands splayed and knotted in her hair, his legs pinned over hers. Some nights, Allura will tug his arms, suck gentle kisses to the insides of his wrists, or the tips of his ears, she’ll shuck free his nightshirt (which Lotor seems to wear every evening to charm her, Allura takes every pleasure in unravelling them just as soon), and feel his chest acclimatise to her warmth. She likes discovering things about his body- that he has a violet scar at his ribs from a sparring accident, that his shoulders are more acutely muscled than even armor or formal attire leads one to believe. And she’s helplessly charmed by his vulnerabilities too, even the silly ones that he doesn’t mind laughing at himself about. He sometimes makes a pleased, yearning noise when Allura plays with his hair, which he apparently can’t help at all, and often wakes with his face squashed beneath Allura’s arm, all because the sunlight caught his eyes in some odd way.

He holds her, too, when Allura’s not quite sure how he knows, only that his body seems newly attuned to the needs of hers. He’s ever lifting her up, pinning her against the walls, or the ground, or the stone surface in her spa, Lotor’s never shy about letting her know how much he needs her too. And Allura learns- in trembling, giddy snippets- that he gets near as soaked as she, he’ll hiss louder, makes breathless, whiny moans as his hands make her shiver. She can make him fall apart just by pressing her knees to each side of his face, his mouth wet and open wide as he gasps, then grins, nips his mouth back down her thigh. The sorer he is from training, the more tenderly he’ll nuzzle into Allura’s neck, drag his teeth needfully over her shoulder, asking for her to suck at his nipples, make a bidding sound when she straddles him.

On the longest eclipse of the year, one of the last nights before Lotor is to return to his duties, Allura takes him out to the hotpools. She’s set up an open tent, no more than pillows and a loose canopy really- but Lotor stands still in awe, he lifts Allura from the waist and cuddles her without reserve, Allura’s arms clinging round his neck. They spend vargas soaking in the pools- at first the warmer ones, then Allura suggests the cooler mineral spring, for Lotor’s bruises and cuts look like they ache. He’ll never fuss over training injuries- and to be fair they’re mostly superficial- but nor is he stubborn when Allura tries to patch him up. He’ll watch with a quiet thankfulness and occasional confusion- Allura’s astonished to realise he’s never heard of simple things like balm- and afterwards kiss her knuckles and her unscathed skin too, an unconscious echo of how much he liked it.

“The gladiators do come with a safety switch,” Allura teases later, as they lie beneath her makeshift canopy.

Lotor stretches and curls into her, nudging closer as he enjoys her touch. Allura roughs her tongue to the last graze at his shoulder.

“I could say my adversaries won’t,” Lotor hums after a while, then playfully catches her hand in his teeth. He slits an eye toward her, half-lidded and wry.

“But really, I think I just like the attention...”

Allura breathes out a laugh, traces her lips over his collarbone and places a gentle kiss at the hollow of his throat.

“That’s rather handy,” says Allura, the words whispered down the carve of his chest, she relishes the prickle of his skin in her wake. “For both of us...”

Lotor’s exhale warms against her palm, Allura kissing around his nipple, quickly rousing it to a stiff point. She sucks, delighted as his nipple stiffens further, then gently scuffs her teeth over his areola, teasing a coarse, clumsy sort of sound from his throat.

“Mmnm,” Allura encourages, leaves the nipple damp and flushed as she tends to his other, already peaked and sore-looking for the wait. She sucks- lightly, and then with a bit more bite- feels Lotor give an involuntary shiver, his erection pressed against his slacks.

“-a lot-” Lotor mumbles, inhale tangled in his windpipe as Allura presses kiss after kiss, following the line of his stomach. “-I like… this…”

Allura reaches his belly button, feels Lotor’s teeth sink gently into the curve of her finger, her other hand splayed into his larger one. Lotor braces, knuckles clenched as Allura traces the dips of his muscles, the strong, sharp angle of his waist.

“- _oh-h,_ ” says Lotor, as Allura’s teeth catch the seam of his slacks. He sucks a breath and holds it, Allura carefully easing the fabric over his cock, letting her mouth brush against the soft swell of his head as she does. Allura loves the sight and the taste of him, his lilac shadows and sensitive, brimming ridge. His length flushes to a generously swollen point, then a deep, wet slit, a sticky bead of precum already dripped to his stomach. She husks a warm breath to his glans, delicately kissing him before moving further down, a glistening string following from her lower lip. His legs twitch against her shoulders as Allura strokes his inner thighs, teasing her fingers over the smoothness of his skin, smiling as she feels him tremble without recourse.

“So beautiful,” Allura murmurs. She spreads his legs over her shoulders, the weight of him sending another ghost of pleasure through her core. She’s already soaked, but holding him up like this, feeling every flinch and shuddering jerk of his hips…

“My Princess,” Lotor whispers, his breath hitches as Allura presses a rough, lingering kiss to the base of his cock. He gasps, desperate and leaking, reaching for her too. Allura takes hold of his hand, guides his fingertips against the small oval of her clit. She feels herself contract, his long fingers seeking and chasing, unfurling into her shape. The palm of his hand is drenched, and when he moves to better please her, Allura tugs him gently away, secures his legs more firmly against her front. Lotor moans and licks his fingers, Allura indulging herself in the light, fragrant scent of his cock, another drip of precum beading from his slit.

“Right where I want you,” she says tenderly, and drags her tongue over his cock once more, Lotor writhing and whimpering, flexing without meaning to as Allura takes him in her mouth. She adores the feel of him, blushed and straining, slippery and tacky at once. Lotor’s precum sticks to the roof of her mouth, and Allura hums in pleasure when he can’t help squeezing out more, just from a few slow sucks. She takes her tongue around the plump ridge of his head, his skin unbearably soft and supple, his notches all risen at her touch. Lotor fumbles for her hands as Allura suckles toward his tip, gently canting his hips so she can support him and let him hold-on at once. She aches, the sensation blissful and building as Lotor tries not to thrust, his fingertips digging into her palms, small, wanting sounds wrung deep from his throat.

Allura lets her mouth naturally salivate, then eases further down, frees a hand to curl around the base of Lotor’s cock too. She strokes a little, but when Lotor gives a sip of warning, loosens her fist, lowers her fingertips to trace his perineum without any pressure. Lotor shivers, full-bodied, tiny twitches shuddering through his abdomen as Allura slicks her mouth back up his head. She loves having him here, entirely in her grasp, his husky moans of pleasure as his mouth falls helplessly ajar. His cock has flushed darker now, Lotor’s eyes are watering and his skin damp with sweat.

“Kiss me?” asks Lotor, hoarsely, and Allura crawls over him, Lotor’s chest taut and broad beneath her. She does, his teeth stinging at her lips as he loses all composure, tongue vicious and heedless, fingers snaring through her hair. Her hands cage to his face and he smiles, panting breathless, nose squashed into the side of hers as he kisses her again.

Caressing his body, Allura soon lifts his waiting knees back over her shoulders, wets her fingers with the slick of her own arousal. Lotor makes a low hiss as she massages a careful fingertip to his opening, slowly eases herself inside. Allura moves- only a fraction, in and out- and he cinches in desire, his body tightening above her knuckles. Taking his cock in her mouth once more, Allura sucks slowly and deliberately, feels his heat against her tongue, hard and flinching as he gives a needful whimper. Allura enters him with a second finger too, this time able to reach deeper, lets him tense and relax around her hand. She pushes, Lotor lets out a fierce gasp as she finds the right place, upper lip curled back in a snarl. Allura gently suckles his head, coaxing and pulsing with her fingers until his legs are trembling, his fingers wild at her arms, her thighs, her shoulders.

“Oh gods I need you-” Lotor breathes, and Allura lowers his hips to the blanket, carefully eases herself out of him and sates her tongue one last time at his slit. She straddles him, curves her upper body against his chest so he can hold her, Lotor moaning into her skin as she guides him inside her. He likes wrapping his body around her like this, one hand splayed at the small of her back, the other tenderly cupping behind her ear. He doesn’t ask, but Allura leans in and draws her teeth over the tip of his ear too, Lotor writhing beneath her, jerking into her frame. She lets him bite in the crook between her neck and shoulder, his mouth wide and pining, he makes a soft, urgent growl as Allura thrusts deeper, faster, taking him in. She kisses his lips, his jaw, his throat, feels his inhale stir in shorter, desperate sips, his body clenching into hers. She feels him shudder with each aching lunge, tremble violently as she brings him to the cusp of his control. Their eyes meet and he wrenches forward, Allura catching him as he loses himself with a searing heat, messy and reeling, the sudden cinch of her body bringing him undone. He muffles a shout into her shoulder, wraps shaking into her arms as he comes apart.

Lotor gazes at her, spent and dishevelled with emotion, utterly and wholly hers.

“Oh, Lu-” he manages, then swallows a cough as he hears himself in the moment after, warmth blossoming at his cheeks. He’s doesn’t have an affectionate nickname for her, and now that Allura thinks about it, no one does- in most royal courts, not using one’s full title is considered the height of casual. Allura stares at him in surprise, the silliest, happiest feeling spreading through her chest as she tries to find the right words. A bright smile lights across her face, and Lotor’s eyebrows tip in astonishment, ever hesitating to believe so much feeling is for him.

_I love it. I love you. My love._

“I hope you’ll use it for me always,” Allura whispers, ever there to remind him, as she always will be.

Lotor smiles back at her, slow and shy and finally, unabashedly charmed. He lifts her up, flips her over as if she were weightless, Allura laughing as his hair falls in a curtain around them, his eyes blue and bright and golden, grin crooking uneven as he doesn’t let go.

“I think,” he husks, his teeth scraping down her stomach in exactly the right way, sharp and satisfied and unforgivingly tender. “That I should like to use it again now.”

 

-

 

Later, when the sun is rising and Lotor quietly tangled in her arms, Allura takes out the gift she brought, tucks her legs beneath her as Lotor sits up on his knees.

“There’s a custom- well, it’s an old one, so, more of a tradition, really,” Allura starts, finding herself suddenly quite nervous, though she’s rehearsed the speech in her head. She clears her throat, rearranges her hands.

“Well,” she continues, sips a breath, then places the gift in Lotor’s lap instead, her words unexpectedly vanishing. “Perhaps- well, you’ll see-”

Lotor meets her eyes, questioning, but Allura only gives a flustered nod toward the silken wrapping. Carefully, he opens it, each layer of material folded in a series of intricate knots, unfurling in the most obscure and detailed patterns, each has taken Allura whole nights to fold. When he reaches the final panel, his eyes go wide with wonder.

Laying in the swim of fabric is a thin golden circlet, a sparkling blue stone at the centre, angled in a downward-pointing triangle in the style of Allura’s own.

“The other half of my quintessence crystal,” Allura explains, her voice light and fluttery, sincere with feeling. “So you may always know… and feel… that you are with me in my heart.”

“This…” Lotor swallows, his voice wavering as he doesn’t dare to breathe. “The circlet. It is only…”

“-for a ruler of Altea, yes,” Allura finishes, then tentatively turns her palms toward the sky, offers both her hands. “...and for her partner.”

Lotor’s fingers thread through her own, his hands clasping tightly into hers. She kisses him and Lotor manages not to cry, not until she places the circlet at his brow at least, and then she gently cups his face, and he hers, and with everything he has, he kisses her back.

 

-

 

**.|.**

_I love you,_ says Lotor, but he can’t hear the words, he feels ill and everything feels wrong.

“Allura,” he tries again, blurry and out of reach. _Do I sound like that?_

“I feel terrible,” Lotor says thickly, his mouth feels clumsy as he tries to crook a smile. “Worse than the time you flew me upside down. Into that… volcanic acid-”

He can almost see her grinning back, eyebrow raised and arms fetching open- _it’s just a cold, come here, you…_ and it probably is, but gods...

There’s a wet, viscous film over his skin, he feels heavy and weightless at once.

“I wonder if I should tell Bokar,” Lotor manages, teasing. “That _Senak_ also spells… _snake…_ ”

_King Bokar the first? Of Senak?_ mutters a voice, and lower, behind it- ... _how long was he…_

Lotor tries to focus- his mouth and eyelids are sticky and his nose feels like it’s running- he doesn’t understand why he’s standing up.

_If all fails,_ says King Alfor, and Lotor feels something in his chest twist, his heart is beating faster, he feels like he’s slipping behind. _If all fails. Find her._

“Allura?” chokes Lotor, more urgently now. He must be having some nightmare, there’s a rushing in his ears that won’t stop. He can see his reflection, floating and peaceful, hair suspended in waves around his neck.

The liquid continues to drain.

-

Lotor wakes on his hands and knees, he’s retching horribly yet nothing leaves his mouth.

_Easy..._ says Allura, one hand soothingly at his stomach, the other holding him up so he doesn’t collapse. _Easy, easy... you’re just trying too hard..._

“Stop it,” he chuckles, because this isn’t the time to make him laugh. But then he does, coughs up whatever gel he’s been submerged in, and feels better for it. The hallucination fades as his consciousness returns, and Lotor lies on his back, tries to accustom his eyes to the empty glow above. He doesn’t recognise his surrounds- the closest he can equate it to is a holding cell, deep and carmine, sharply angled. He gazes at pod-like object he emerged from.

It’s a sleep chamber.

Lotor reaches, runs his hands around the Altean markings at the rim. The chamber is scuffed and badly damaged in parts, torn free from its original station. He knows too, that the pod should have been infused with cryomist, not some insipid liquid, and guesses the damage is recent and the liquid a hasty precaution.

But against what?

“I don’t think,” Lotor whispers, and he sinks back onto the ground, the small effort of inspecting the pod has left his muscles shaking. “...that I’m supposed to be here.”

Before he passes out, he can see King Alfor, desperate and determined.

Allura threads her fingers through his, holding on.

-

Lotor remembers two things.

His father is dead, and Altea is lost.

He doesn’t know which came first, or which spurred the other, but he knows these things are connected, and he knows both to be real.

As he drags his body through the empty passageways, it’s this truth that keeps him going, vicious and numb, he has to leave this place so he can find her.

He’s aboard a Galra flagship, he’s sure of that now, the halls are sleek and menacing and like none he’s ever seen. But there are tells- certain markings that a non-Galra wouldn’t know- that signal directions to various quarters. The galley, the weaponry, the fighter bay.

Lotor passes these by, keeps his steps quiet as he clears the upper deck.

He’s making for the helm.

-

Not far from his final quarry, Lotor is stopped. The Galra- two, lieutenant rank, regiment unknown- stare at him in disbelief, entirely at a loss for the right protocol. When they slowly raise their fists in salute, Lotor hides his relief behind a stiff, condescending smile.

He can’t afford to be questioned now.

“Give me your sword,” he says, and one of the lieutenants does.

Lotor continues his path, presses his palm to access the central chamber.

“Who is in command here?” Lotor says loudly, and he firms his grip on the weapon, resolve steadying his stride.

At the end of a high overpass is an armoured figure, tall and darkly clad. His eyes are bright and bloodless; violently, vividly empty.

_My father is dead,_ Lotor thinks, reeling. _My father is dead and Altea is-_

Behind him, a shadow raises her hand.

-

_His sleep chamber was compromised in the extraction, Sire…_

_He started waking. If we didn’t empty the pod, he would have drowned..._

_And the information lost..._

Lotor can hear the shadow speaking, her voice inky and harsh, devoid of sentiment. When he opens his eyes, he can see his circlet, Allura’s quintessence crystal broken free where his head hit the ground. It’s laying so close, dull and lifeless where it was once shimmering blue.

Lotor feels a cold, suffocating terror rise inside him, his throat closes and his mouth dries. A coil of energy wrenches Lotor to his knees.

“And now that he’s here,” says the Emperor. “We shall know if it was worth it.”

The energy coil tightens, Lotor feels a sharp, savage heat shudder through all his limbs at once. A hiss of pain escapes him, wrought and animal, his skin burns as the sensation fades. A druid, then. No longer sequestered behind closed doors, but here, at his father’s right hand side.

“Tell me,” says Zarkon, and he leans down to see Lotor’s face, expression cruel and unchanging. “For how long did you know of Alfor’s plans? How many others escaped the destruction of Altea?”

“King Alfor,” Lotor gasps, his lungs still flinching from the shock. “Where is he?”

The druid raises both palms again, but Zarkon stops her, offers a calculated sneer.

“Long dead,” comes the reply, heavy with malice. “Like the Altean colony who tried to harbor you.”

King Alfor... is...

_“Sire,”_ the druid whispers, the word lingering on her tongue. “It would not be below the Alteans to have taken him unwilling. His loss would wound us, had you need of a successor.”

“Which I do not,” the Emperor growls, but the suggestion is enough to grant him pause.

“Father,” says Lotor, trying to cut this madness into sense. “Father, it’s me, your son. It’s me, Lotor.”

Zarkon stares at him, unmoved.

“How long have I been in that pod?” Lotor manages, his terror curdling with a dark, frightened dread. If Alfor has passed… has it been...

_If all fails. Find her._

“You were with the Alteans some ten thousand deca-phoebs,” Zarkon says coldly. “Why they kept you alive, I’ve yet to discover. However, I no longer require a son.”

Lotor slumps forward, lays his cheek against the ground.

Ten thousand deca-phoebs.

He doesn’t care about his lineage.

Allura is dust among the stars.

Lotor remembers two guards taking hold of him, though not who gave the command. He’s pulled limply to his feet, then dragged on his heels.

Through the ceiling of his father’s ship, he can see only black.

“Wait,” croaks Lotor, for Allura’s crystal is still laying where it fell. The guards tighten their grip on his arms, neither halts their pace.

“I said, _wait_ ,” Lotor hisses, and when the soldiers pay him no heed he twists violently, there’s a snap of metal plating as he sends one over his shoulder, the other meets the flat of his blade, falls silent at his feet.

And then the chamber is in uproar, guards charging from their posts, Lotor swinging his sword wildly, recklessly, his strikes missing as often as they connect. But the overpass is too narrow, they can’t surround him and he doesn’t falter, Lotor cuts them down without finesse, without style and without tact, there’s no fear in the universe that can touch him, nowhere he won’t be lost.

“Enough,” growls Zarkon, and the sentries step aside, the druid raises her arms, hands spread and fingers clawed.

The pulse of energy hits before Lotor’s halfway to the crystal, knocks him hard to the floor and bites into his limbs, pulling him further and further back. He tries to crawl but his hands are slipping, the overpass blue and sticky, his palms wet with his own blood.

“Lu,” he whispers, but it comes out as a ragged sob, another following behind, and then he’s sobbing mercilessly, deep and pained and hollow, his tears sting, leak into his mouth as he drags himself forward on his stomach.

He forces his body, again and again, the magic snaring his wrists, his neck, his lungs.

He doesn’t know if the druid ever stopped.

He doesn’t need to.

Lotor closes the crystal in his palm- it feels so small now- he brings his clenched fist to his chest, curls into himself as he lays on his side. His exhale comes out as a single, broken whine, and he twitches, crumbling, he cries until his consciousness fades, until he can feel her holding him back.

-

  

**.|.**

 

< Prince Lotor >

He doesn’t turn, but lets one of his shoulders drop, just a fraction, so that his General knows it’s alright to approach.

She does, formally, keeps more than the required distance, stands to one side rather than behind him. Some part of him wonders how they all know to do this, he’s never instructed them so.

< News from central command, Sir > she says, not so much a voice as thought and feeling, intangible and complex, more detailed than words could ever convey. She speaks to few in this manner, for it requires trust on both sides. Of what little he has, Lotor has tried his best to offer, more grateful than he can express that his generals trust him in return.

“Yes,” Lotor murmurs, keeps his gaze toward the viewport. “I thought as much.”

Narti waits, silent, she won’t offer any message unless Lotor specifically requests it. They all know Lotor comes here, stares into the inky black for nights on end. It started some phoebs ago, though they’ve never asked what prompted it, and Lotor makes no secret of the fact. Sometimes, they’ll join him. It’s peaceful, observing the stars and planets of each quadrant, though Lotor comes to realise this isn’t why they return.

And slowly, he comes to appreciate this too.

“They have need of us,” Lotor says after a moment. “They wish for me to return.”

< Yes > answers Narti, a swell of images rising in accord. His father’s deathbed. The priestess who tortured him. Not all of these images have been given freely, Lotor realises, but his enemies so often underestimate the skills of his generals, predictably and to a fault.

“Thank you,” Lotor says quietly, and Narti raises her fist to her chest. “Please inform the others.”

He stays a while longer, eventually dipping his brow against the window. The glass is cold at his skin, his exhale fogs the display.

Knowing he won’t be disturbed again, Lotor pulls back his glove, stares once more at the thin cuff round his wrist. Every time he does, he’s terrified it won’t be there, or has returned to what it was.

But it hasn’t.

For phoebs now, Allura’s quintessence crystal has been glowing, bright and sapphire as the day she gave it to him. At first, he was reckless, set their missions off-course and issued beacon after beacon, returned to every hope he’d held at bay. But the galaxy still has corners undiscovered even now, and Lotor’s resources are not without limits.

_So it will be the Empire,_ Lotor thinks, ironic, _that will finally give me means to repair this all._

He joins his generals in the briefing chamber.

“What should we tell them, Sir?” asks Acxa, Lotor’s meticulous expression betraying nothing.

“Tell them,” he says pleasantly, then takes his seat at the bridge. “That we are on our way.”

 

-

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! this was a really fun project to try and pull together in the leadup to xmas (and my first with these two! <3), any comments and kudos are always adored and warmly appreciated! c’: 
> 
> [@sillyshiro](http://sillyshiro.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! :D


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